HANNAH TARDER STOLL<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich of you are non-Christian, Jewish?\u201d the man inquired. His thin-rimmed glasses magnified his already massive eyes, giving him the look of a trapped goldfish and the collar of his plaid, button-up shirt was starched so stiff that I was surprised he wasn\u2019t struggling for breath. The dense air was heavy with hot summer moisture as we all slumped in the pews of the sanctuary. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNon-Christians?\u201d I raised my hand, somewhat skeptically. \u201cAh, you are part of the mission.\u201d The man chuckled at his own joke.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Now, demanding someone\u2019s religion from them straight out is generally not considered by society to be appropriate. In fact, it is quite the opposite. It\u2019s honestly that simple: don\u2019t ask rude and politically incorrect questions when you are introducing yourself. That is just a basic rule of etiquette. Apparently though, this is not the case in rural Germany.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The man smiled and his eyes bulged even further. \u201cAlright then, let us learn about Martin Luther.\u201d And so, the missionary proceeded with his Sunday school lesson. Except this man was not a missionary. No, he was just a regular guy, an organist, who was giving my choir a tour of Wittenberg. Yet, the traces of anti-Semitism were unmistakable. As a Jew, I know about discrimination. I\u2019ve heard about it from stories of the war, and other destitution. I\u2019ve seen it in the faces of the elderly. I\u2019ve seen it in every racist joke that people laugh at, and in every ethnocentric clump of culturally monochromatic cliques. But never did I expect to experience it firsthand. I felt attacked and degraded. But even more than that, I felt prouder than ever of my religion. How was it considered appropriate to even suggest that one religion was superior to another? How was it still acceptable to segregate\u2014and convert\u2014when we live in such a beautifully diverse world?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I was of the belief that long-time anti-Semitism in Germany had been killed along with Hitler and the Nazis. I know that not all Germans were Nazis. But really now, that is no excuse to start cracking Jew jokes at your guests.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Especially in Germany, when you have so much anti-Semitism to learn from, this is inappropriate. But sometimes, discrimination and hardships make you stronger. Sometimes, battle scars are the most poignant medals. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I stood at the wrought iron-gates, knees shaking, face pale. Through the foreboding bars I was able to see fragmented pieces of the camp. I was at Buchenwald, the site of one of the largest concentration camps during WWII. I couldn\u2019t bring myself to pass those gates; I couldn\u2019t move my legs any further. What would I find when I mustered up the courage to go inside?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I stared at the sign hanging above the entrance, \u201cJedem das Seine\u201d it read. Rather, it warned. This was a place of horror and hatred. More than that, it was a place of bravery and tenacity. I thought of those who fought desperately for their lives here, I thought of my ancestors who, like countless others, were lost forever in the mass of bodies, faces, names. So many had passed through the very gates I was standing at, the gates that started thousands of stories, and ended thousands more.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n And yet, I could not even find it in me to pass through the gates.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I took a shaky breath. Then one more. And with that, I stepped inside, all too aware of my feet on the gravel path. I was inside Buchenwald, and I was shoched with ease. The sky was a light blue, periwinkle and a warm breeze rustled the leaves on the radiant trees. And it was absolutely silent, save for the distant chirping of birds. Where was the sickening horror, the gruesome devastation? Even the barracks were gone, the precarious shelter replaced with dirt and rubble. The only trace left of the camps gruesome past was the smokestack, small and modest, standing innocently next to the crematorium. It was no different from a smokestack you would see rising from a small factory, or a house. But this one did not burn wood or coal. It burned people. It burned lives.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Clumps of tourists flocked everywhere. They pointed to buildings with interest. They snapped pictures on their cameras of the memorials, the crematoriums, the medical experimentation centers. I couldn\u2019t help but feel uneasy, disrespected, angry. We were in a place where the worst horrors in history happened. In a graveyard, it is rude to take pictures. Why is Buchenwald any different? I guess people are too caught up in their tourist experience to mourn the loss of both humans and humanity.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I wandered the camp, saw the sites, duly noted them. But still, I couldn\u2019t understand, couldn\u2019t fathom what I was seeing. I held all my emotions tight to my chest, afraid to let them go, afraid to show my hatred, grief, disgust, fury.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Finally I found the Jewish memorial, commemorating all the Jews who were sent to Buchenwald, abused, and murdered. Everyone lost, all my people, honoured on one cold, inhuman slab of rock. I knelt at it, like bowing to a shrine. I knelt at the memorial for quite a while. When I got up, the stones from the gravel had made red indents on my knees. In the Jewish religion, whenever a grave is visited you put a stone on top of the monument. This is to show the deceased that we are never truly finished building their monument and remembering them, we are always adding to it. I bent down, picked up a stone, and placed it on the memorial, cozily nestled among the hundreds that were already there.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I left the camp when I had had enough, exiting the same way I had come in. Once more I passed through the wrought-iron gates, under the sign that cautioned all, \u201cJedem das Seine\u201d. But what did \u201cJedem das Seine\u201d mean? I didn\u2019t even know. I whipped out the audio guide that I paid ten Euros for and didn\u2019t even bother to use until then.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The audio guide robotically spoke: \u201cThe gates to Buchenwald Concentration Camp read \u2018Jedem das Seine\u2019, in English meaning \u2018To each his own.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n To each his own? The Nazi\u2019s, apparently, were all for irony! We were at Buchenwald, the place where thousands were murdered because of nothing but their religion and they were telling me \u201cTo each his own\u201d? I\u2019m sorry Buchenwald, but you should not be preaching to anyone about acceptance. Inside, I was furious; I was devastated. I wanted to destroy the entire camp. Outside, I was calm, collected, stony. I thought of the missionary this morning, and his subtle attempt to convert the Jews. There is still no acceptance, no appreciation for diversity. If the murder of six million Jewish people cannot make society learn from their mistakes, then what can?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I think it\u2019s about time people started listening to their own advice.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \n Jedem das Seine.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" HANNAH TARDER STOLL \u201cWhich of you are non-Christian, Jewish?\u201d the man inquired. His thin-rimmed glasses magnified his already massive eyes, giving him the look of a trapped goldfish and the collar of his plaid, button-up shirt was starched so stiff that I was surprised he wasn\u2019t struggling for breath. The dense air was heavy with […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-211","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=211"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":384,"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/211\/revisions\/384"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=211"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=211"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/graffiti.ntci.on.ca\/2009-10\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=211"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}